


oh moon be still, she is aching

by MissFaber



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1960s, Alaska, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Dark Jon Snow, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Murder, Pining, Sansa is the only Stark child, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, Werewolves, but he's soft with Sansa, minor Joffrey/Sansa, the only one who can tame the wolf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-16 05:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21502945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFaber/pseuds/MissFaber
Summary: After the passing of her parents, Sansa Stark inherits Winterfell—the family inn tucked into the Alaskan fog. Though travelers seeking refuge in the slow-moving winter are few, the work is overwhelming, and Sansa wouldn’t be able to manage it without Jon Snow—her lifelong protector, her closest companion, her almost-brother.  It’s a quiet, idyllic life they love. When threats start to plague it from every direction, Sansa and Jon struggle to accept the inevitability of change.In the dark, desolate woods behind the inn, wolves take what’s theirs.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 31
Kudos: 161
Collections: JonsaWeek2019





	1. the shelter of knowing nothing else

**Author's Note:**

> I present to you my Jonsa week fic for _Winterfell,_ though this also fits for Historical and Wolves. (I'm genuinely in love with this one, I've been dying to write a werewolves fic, so I'm excited.)
> 
> [check out the accompanying photoset :)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/189193066576/oh-moon-be-still-she-is-aching-jonsa-alaskan)

It was supposed to stay in the world of legend, in the stories her mother would murmur to her in her soft voice when she was a child, bouncing on her knee. Stories of the strong Alaskan wolf who walked as a man. “Werewolves,” little Sansa had said to her mother one such time, proud of the spike of recognition that shot within her.

“Something like that,” her mother had replied cryptically, teasingly. When Sansa’s mouth protruded in a pout her mother had run her long, slim fingers soothingly through her hair. “Where have you heard of werewolves, girl?”

“Jon told me.” She had registered her mother’s fingers jerk to a stop, her body going rigid behind her.

“In _Wolf Leader,”_ Sansa continued, hoping she remembered the title correctly, and her mother’s body relaxed, her fingers resuming their movements. “He told me all about the werewolf man granting wishes, like a genie. He said I’m not old enough to read it.”

“You’re not.”

“But the werewolf isn’t scary! He’s good!” Sansa had protested, hoping to persuade her mother to let her read the book Jon was fixated on, even if she still had trouble reading some of the names printed in the guest book of the inn.

“The wolf _is_ good, and strong too…” Her mother’s voice had trailed off, musing. “You have nothing to fear from a wolf, Sansa, if he is from your own pack.”

Mother always said things like that, things that didn’t make sense, that felt fantastical and sometimes sent a little thrill down her spine. Mother was a storyteller, creative and imaginative, that’s all it was.

When she was older, when mother was gone, she began to see the truth.

* * *

Jon read by the weak, golden light of the lamp perched on the high ledge of the front desk, where the guest book sat. Winter had come. There would be no guests seeking refuge in the inn tonight. He didn’t need to be here—he should be asleep, or at the very least reading in the comfort of his living room. But the living room’s windows faced the dark wood behind the inn, and Jon needed the view of the front lot tonight, where he would see the headlights of the sleek town car come in, late—much too late.

Joffrey Baratheon’s car. Jon disliked the name, but disliked the man even more, his smug face and his too bright eyes, with a perpetual look of hunger of greed in them. Jon disliked the way Joffrey’s hand would drop too low when he touched Sansa’s back to lead her from a room. He disliked the fact that he led her anywhere at all, that he touched her at all _._

Jon swallowed his anger, then a sip from the tepid glass of water that sat before him. If Sansa wanted to see Joffrey, she could do that. He wouldn’t stop her. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t protect her.

He had no right— he was not her father, he was not her brother. _I don’t want to be her brother, anyhow, but I’ll protect her like one._ He liked to think—he _hoped_ —that if Ned Stark was alive today he would be proud of Jon for looking after his daughter.

He did a damn good job of it. He saw her through school and ran the inn until she was ready to take over. When Sansa was sick, he made her soup and wiped her brow with a cool cloth. He’d run the inn in her stead, meet his deadlines, and when she was still in school he would make the drive to bring her assignments so she wouldn’t fall behind. When their rundown Ford, her father’s old car, had swiveled off the road it was Jon she had called, crying. She had not been hurt, thankfully, but Jon had rushed to her side. He didn’t like her driving so much after that, but once she’d recovered from her fright she was stubborn. When Jon replaced the car he agonized over the choice, going into town many times to consult on the safest model. Jon was careful to fit the winter tires onto it before the storms rolled in.

It was the least he could do for her—and for the man and woman who raised them. Sansa’s parents had given him shelter when he was a boy with nothing, and now he was repaying them by caring for her. He intended to spend his life keeping the promise he’d made to them after they were gone, though they could not hear him. _She will always be safe. She will want for nothing._

But Sansa was a woman of twenty, a woman grown. Soon, she might not need him. _Soon, she might marry._ If it wasn’t Joffrey it would be some other man—Sansa was beautiful and clever, from a known family. Jon knew there was many a man in town that talked of making her his woman. Soon she would marry and leave to live with some undeserving husband, a man who didn’t know to bake her lemon cakes on the first Sunday of every month just as her mother did. Or would he move into the inn?

It wasn’t likely; a man following his wife into her home. Yet, with Sansa, it was a very real possibility. Jon couldn’t imagine her leaving Winterfell; the inn had been in her family for generations. What place would Jon have at the inn, or in her life, then? The thought twisted his stomach. What life awaited him without her in it?

The crunching of icy gravel beneath tires shook him from his dismal thoughts. Jon closed his book and stood by the window. He knew he could easily be seen, but he didn’t mind—in fact, he hoped Joffrey would see him. If a man like him thought he could take advantage of this girl because she had no father waiting for her at home, Jon would show him just how wrong he was.

The passenger door swung open and a long, wool-clad leg extended out of the car door. The lowlife hadn’t even bothered to open the door for her. Sansa pushed herself out of the low car. Jon flinched as her heels wobbled on the gravel, his body already twisting to leap out the door to help her, but she caught her balance. _I tell her not to wear those shoes come winter._

Jon watched her bend to talk to Joffrey, probably saying goodbye. He couldn’t see Joffrey’s face with the distance and the dark. A moment later, Sansa swung the car door shut and as it peeled out all Jon could think was, _good riddance._

Joffrey had stopped the car at the end of the lot and Jon swallowed the growl that ripped up his throat as Sansa started to make her way slowly across the gravel. He didn’t even bother to pull on his coat before he was running across the lot to her.

“Jon!” His name was a gust of white breath in front of her mouth. “Jon, you’ll catch your death,” she admonished.

“Don’t worry.” He looped her arm through his to support her walk across the unsteady ground. “My blood runs warm.”

“Why’re you awake? It’s late.”

“Plenty late,” he agreed readily. “Too late an hour for Joffrey to bring you home, Sansa. Tell him to bring you home at a respectable hour next time or I’ll have to make him.”

“Jon…” Her blue eyes met his for a moment, full of meaning, before returning to the ground in front of her as she carefully planned every footfall. “Joffrey doesn’t like you standing there.”

He didn’t manage to completely suppress an angry grunt. “Surprised he could see me, he stopped the car so far.”

_“Jon.”_

The reprimand in her voice would have had him regretting his actions _if_ he believed they truly upset her. But he could tell she wasn’t upset at him. She was upset that Joffrey was upset.

His blood rose. Had Joffrey been harsh with her? Had he yelled at her?

“He told you he doesn’t like me waiting for you?”

Sansa didn’t look at him. “More or less.”

They reached the door, which Jon had left ajar in his haste to reach Sansa. He ushered her in and closed the door behind her before he let out any more of the warmth.

Sansa was turning out the lamp on the front desk and locking the glass cage of keys, their nighty procedure. Together they took the four flights of stairs up to their apartment. He and Sansa shared the rooms at the top floor of the inn, just as Ned and Catelyn had done.

Immediately Sansa dropped onto the velvet stool by the landing, peeling off her heels and releasing a satisfied groan. Jon chuckled as he helped her out of her coat. “Why do you wear those shoes? You’ll slip, mark my words, and they hurt anyway.”

“They _look nice.”_ Sansa arched a brow as she looked up at him from her seat. “Don’t you think so?”

Jon swallowed. He couldn’t admit he’d noticed the way they extended her legs, ridiculously long already. He couldn’t admit he found her just as enticing barefooted, running around their kitchen.

So he simply nodded.

“Joffrey’s encouraged me to wear them. He likes them.”

He still held her coat in his hands and he turned to hang it just to do something, something to occupy his mind from reacting to Sansa’s words about Joffrey.

_You’re losing her. Not that you ever had her._

“It’s autumn still,” she said; a stubborn, fanciful sentiment, as winter lasted all but four months out of the year. Her voice told her she stood and was passing by him. “I should be able to wear a nice pair of shoes for a couple weeks more, before it’s all plain winter boots.”

“Come, now. Would you want to be anywhere else?”

The question was rhetorical. Yes, Jon’s occupation as a writer gave him the ability to support them from anywhere. But they were bound to Winterfell. Jon knew Sansa wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. Neither would he.

“No.” She was smiling. “It’s our winter, right?”

The words sent warmth through him a furnace never could. “Yes.”

Her eyes were glassy, a bit red; she was tired, swaying on her feet in the foyer. That scoundrel Joffrey had really kept her out much too late. His anger returned.

“Joffrey isn’t rough with you, is he?”

She gasped, scandalized. “Jon!”

“Humor me. He’s respectable? He doesn’t mistreat you?”

She swept past him, fuming. “He’s perfectly fine. He just doesn’t like seeing _you_ hovering in the window every time we say goodbye.”

Jon bit his tongue against the slew of comments he’d like to make against that. Sansa deserved more than _fine,_ she deserved someone who’d at the very least open doors for her, who wouldn’t leave her to walk in the cold. She deserved someone who’d shape the rest of his world to her.

“Tell me how _you_ feel about it. You don’t like me waiting up for you?”

The tense lines in her body evaporated at his tone; the corner of her mouth quirked as if she couldn’t help it. “If I tell you I don’t like it, you’ll stop?”

He answered with his own smirk. “Probably not.”

She giggled. “Oh, Jon...”

“It’s my job to protect you, darling. I…” He swallowed. “I need to keep you safe.” The gravity of his tone was sobering, the smile fading from her face in degrees, until all that was left was warmth.

“Well, I don’t mind it,” she finally admitted, a bit shyly, her eyes dropping to her feet. “You’re family.”

The words weren’t the relief he expected them to be. They twisted in his gut. Jon stepped forward and pressed a light kiss to her forehead.

“Get some sleep.”

She nodded, her skin moving across his lips. He hadn’t stepped back yet. She didn’t ask him to. He stood a moment longer, savoring her closeness, and then stepped away before he would have pushed too far.

“Goodnight, Jon.”


	2. no, not a brother

First Sundays were the loveliest days to wake up to. Sansa’s eyes opened slowly, holding her in that sweet place between dreams and waking, so that she could breathe the scent of citrus and sugar as she woke in degrees.

Jon was seated in the kitchen, his back lit by the weak morning sun. Two cups of coffee and a plate of lemon squares were on the round kitchen table in front of him. A thought came to her, unbidden, in the moment it took for him to notice her presence and look up at her, when his eyes were still fixed on the papers in his lap; _he is so good to me._

“It’s early.” His smile was soft, diluted by the morning, and he jerked his chin at the lemon squares. “They’re still cooling.”

“I didn’t sleep well.” When she approached the table he passed her the cup of coffee with the cream inside. “Thank you…”

“You feeling ill? Bad dreams?”

Now that he’d said the word, a rush of fragmented images returned to her. The woods, dark and deep, and her. Running. The heavy sound of her breath. The tear of a growl up her throat. _I’m terrified._

Her mouth had fallen open and her breaths came shallow, the coffee cup forgotten in her hands, as the depth and color of the memories that weren’t—couldn’t—have been her own intensified.

“Sansa?”

She snapped to attention. “Yes… dreams… I think that’s what it was.”

 _Something’s going to change._ Somehow she knew it as well as she knew her own name. _And it will happen in the woods._ But that made no sense. She never went into the woods at night, barely approached them during the day. She remembered her father’s warnings as clearly as if he was sitting before her.

 _Yet… I’m terrified_. Fear clenched like a fist in her belly. But Jon’s already serious face looked stricken, so Sansa waved it off and fixed a neutral expression on her face. Jon would worry about her if she was in paradise.

“What do you have planned today? Writing?”

Jon narrowed his eyes on her, but allowed her the diversion. “Yes. But first I have to trim the trees, especially that pesky one by your window. Before the storms come.”

Sansa smiled warmly at him. It was _her_ job to mind the inn; Jon had his writing. But Jon helped her so much she wasn’t sure how she ever would have managed without him. She thought fondly of her parents, always moving in sync like two halves of a whole. A team.

“Miss Tyrell was asking for you this morning.”

“Really?” Margaery was one of four guests staying in the inn currently. “What did she want?”

“She said you two had a plan to go exploring in the woods today…?”

Sansa blinked in surprise. _The woods…?_ It was close to her dream, too close for comfort. Still she searched her memory for such a plan, knowing already she hadn’t made it.

“You’ve never wanted to go into the woods before,” Jon said slowly, probing. His motives were transparent to her; he wasn’t eager about her going into the woods and trying to discover her change of heart so that he could dissuade her. Sansa decided to put him out of his misery.

“I don’t want to. We never made such a plan.”

Jon frowned. “Why would she say it?”

Sansa shrugged. “Was she dressed for leaving? Was she in the parlor?”

“Oh… no. She came to the door.”

Sansa crooked an eyebrow. Margaery was vivacious and young, of a similar age as her. She was traveling with two men, but Sansa suspected she was unattached. One of the men resembled her so strikingly he was clearly her brother, and the other never looked at Margaery with any sort of interest.

“She came to the apartment door, earlier than this?”

Jon nodded, his lack of understanding plain on his straightforward face. Sansa had to suppress a giggle.

“Jon… I think she finds you… well…” She was surprised to feel her cheeks heating. “Attractive. She wanted an opportunity to speak to you, and used me as an excuse.”

“Oh.” Instead of embarrassment or interest, Jon merely returned his attention to his papers.

Sansa frowned. For a reason she didn’t know, this lack of affectation irked her. She decided to probe. “Well… are you interested in her?”

Jon didn’t meet her eyes. That irked her, too. “No.”

“Why not? She’s quite pretty.”

Jon sighed in a slow, indulgent way, as if he was tempering his patience, as if he was talking to a child. “I’m sure you know that’s not all it takes.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you then, if you have no interest.” She felt both properly shamed and more annoyed with him than ever. She touched the corner of one lemon square, testing, finding it still warm. “Please don’t embarrass her.”

Jon’s eyes met hers then, dark and intense. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Sansa swallowed. No, he wouldn’t do that.

* * *

At lunch Sansa found Margaery in the dining room, piling potatoes on a plate. Her two traveling companions were eating by the window.

“Miss Margaery.” Sansa smiled at her. Though Margaery had no way of knowing of the conversation that took place hours earlier, Sansa felt she had wronged her somehow, and was determined to show her an abundance of kindness.

“Miss Sansa!” Margaery grinned back, waving her over. “This plate is divine. Here I am, having my second helping. I swear to you, when I return home, my mother won’t recognize me and it’ll be your fault!”

Margaery’s face lit up with her smile; she really was very pretty, and Sansa found herself wondering again about Jon’s lack of interest.

“My mother’s recipe,” Sansa said. Nearly all the dishes Sansa cooked for herself, Jon, and the comers and goers of the inn were from her mother’s handwritten recipe book. “Have as much as you like. I made much more than needed.”

“Please, join me.”

Although she wasn’t very hungry, Sansa obliged, filling half a plate with potatoes and some of the fried fish.

“I came to see you this morning,” Margaery started when they were both seated. “I thought we could take a walk. I’ve yet to enjoy the Alaskan scenery, though I’ve been here a week.”

“I would love to take a walk sometime. How long are you here for?”

“I’m just waiting for Loras to conclude his business. Buying _timber._ It’s quite boring, but I travel with him when I can, because… well, what am I going to do at home? I’m bored out of my mind. We’re from Arizona, you see. Don’t misunderstand, it’s quite lovely. But Mother’s become very controlling, I’m not allowed anywhere without a chaperone…”

Lunch passed quickly, with Sansa being regaled with tales from the sprawling ranch Margaery’s family lived in, with colorful images of the Arizona desert, the strange trees and the dusty red mountains.

When the meal and conversation was done and Sansa was piling the plates to take to the kitchen, Margaery stopped her. “Can I ask you something?”

Sansa paused, and Margaery asked, “Your brother, he seems… unattached.”

 _Well, what’s the question?_ A lesser part of herself thought the retort, but Sansa pressed it down. It wasn’t uncommon for guests to assume they were brother and sister. It was even more common—and more uncomfortable— for them to assume they were married, since they didn’t resemble each other in the slightest.

“Jon’s not my brother.”

Margaery’s brow rose into her hairline. “But you live together… your husband? I’m so sorry, Sansa… I just assumed—”

“No, not my husband.” Sansa smiled tightly. “We were raised together. He helps me run the inn.”

It was such a weak way to explain the bond between them, what it meant to grow up together under this roof, to be molded by Mother’s and Father’s hands. To bury them together. Jon’s hands had carved their names into their tombstones, in the family plot about a mile southeast.

But there was no word to describe what he was to her—“friend” was too small, “associate” was simply incorrect. _Companion. Partner._ But those words made her feel strange, lightheaded, and she’s yet to find the courage to say them aloud.

Margaery tilted her chin back, a knowing look in her eyes. She opened her mouth to say something, but Sansa never heard the words; Jon had entered the dining hall, nodding in greeting to the men by the window before approaching her.

“Good afternoon, Miss Tyrell.”

“Good afternoon,” Margaery drawled in response, and Jon nodded politely before directing his attention to Sansa.

“I’m going out, to work on those trees… Renly said he’d help.”

“Yes, Renly is quite the helpful fellow,” Mr. Tyrell called out in a monotone.

“Alright.” Suddenly Sansa forgot how to speak with Jon, how to carry on a conversation normally. She had the sense that Margaery was watching her very closely.

So Jon simply gave her a parting nod and small smile, leaning in to take from her the dirty plates she held between her hands. “I’ll take care of these…”

When he and Mr. Baratheon had gone, Sansa finally allowed herself to look at Margaery.

“No,” Margaery said, a little knowing smirk on her face. “Not a brother.”

* * *

The hours between dinner and sleep were the rowdiest in the inn. The guests were usually within its walls to be shielded from the dark and the cold, not yet drowsy, talking and moving. But it was the most peaceful time for Jon, who no longer heard the noises from below once he entered the apartment on the topmost floor.

Sansa spent her days in the inn, just as he did, but neither of them returned to it after dinner unless direly needed. After dinner Sansa would be found in their sitting room, on her preferred seat by the fireplace, embroidery or a book in her lap.

Tonight Jon found her this way when he entered the apartment, curled up with her feet under her and a blanket hanging from her shoulders. She jerked awake at the noise from his entrance.

“Sorry, darling.” He felt the chill and made a mental note to check the furnace; for now he rushed to stoke the dying fire. He felt Sansa’s sleepy gaze on him. “If you’re tired, go to bed,” he suggested gently.

“You were gone long,” was her sleepy response, as if she hadn't heard him.

“Yes, well, Renly’s ‘help’ slowed me down.” The man had proved to be more of a hindrance than a help; although he was strong it was clear he’d never worked with his hands, and very clear that he was no match for the cold of the north. To his credit he hadn’t quit, even if he had only offered to help out of curiosity.

“It was kind of you to entertain him,” she mumbled, voice thick with drowsiness. “Even if it kept you.”

Jon’s heart, traitor it was, jumped at this slightest of attentions. “Were you worried?”

Sansa blinked at him, tucking her chin into the blanket to resume her doze. “Yes. I made you a bath,” she murmured.

Jon found it to be true, the claw foot tub filled with steaming water. Sansa had poured some sort of oil within, something that smelled pleasantly musky. His arms and back were sore from the day’s work, and he was eager for the relief the heat would give his muscles.

When he was dry and clothed he returned to the sitting room. Sansa was awake in her chair now, but her slow smile as she looked at him was touched with sleep. “How was that?”

Jon dropped onto the sofa. “Wonderful. I feel changed.” He sighed pleasantly as he stretched out his legs in front of him. “Thank you, Sansa.”

“You always take care of me.” There was something deeper, not so flippant in her tone, something that drew his gaze to her face. She was beautiful always, but perhaps most beautiful like this—copper hair loose about her shoulders as she never wore it during the day, touched by the warm light from the fire, waves of silk he ached to run his fingers through. Her eyes, pure blue as the sky in summer, looking at him and only him.

“Always, Sansa.”


End file.
